


Wherever I Go, Trouble Seems To Follow

by Jexiou



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, NSFW in upcoming chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5966056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jexiou/pseuds/Jexiou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete is in love love love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're the only place that feels like home

**Author's Note:**

> stay tuned.

Imagining wasn’t too hard, after all, he was always told he had a wild imagination. Keeping the image in his head, though. Remembering how he thought it would feel to run his fingers across the smooth of pale skin. That was the hard part. Every time he started, a hand would wave in front of his eyes, or snap in his ears and someone would say something.

“Earth to Pete, you in there dude?”

“Pete, you’re staring.”

“Do you need to go take a nap or something? You’re acting weird.”

He just shakes his head, painting on a grin, his thoughts shaken from his head to be scavenged for later when he climbs into bed and sticks a hand down his pants. You know, just for fun or whatever. He claims to have been thinking of what to write next, perking some interest from Patrick, but not enough to get the singer to push him into the studio. Thank goodness for that. Any more time with him and Pete would probably jump his bones right there. There’s really only so much pent up sexual frustration one guy can take… and Pete isn’t a big guy. Tour life was not glamorous. At least he only shared the bus with one of the other guys now, not a shitty old van with the four of them squished together. The TrohWentz bus would live in his heart forever, even if always smelled like wet dog or drugs. He nor Joe were neat freaks anyways, unlike Andy and Patrick, (he was glad not to be in that bus however, after hearing them blasting Beyonce’s ‘Love On Top’ at two in the morning one night.)

Patrick’s small shrug set in stone how the three others reacted, all turning back to whatever they had been doing. He watches Joe grind some weed, scrunching up his nose as he sniffs a bit. He grins, gently giving Joe’s shoulder a tap. When the guitarist glances up, he nods towards Andy. The message seems to get across- Don’t do drugs while the straight edge guy was on the bus. It seemed pretty simple to him. Joe shrugs, motions that he’s only getting his drugs ready to do, he’ll wait for Andy to leave to do them. How they can manage to get these messages to each other in a few facial expressions and gestures is amazing, but they do it. The little kick Joe gives to Pete’s shin as Patrick takes his headphones out and closes his laptop is another message. As Patrick stands up, Pete pitches to him.

“Where ya going, Stump? We’re having banding time. It’s band bonding.” He smiles up at Patrick, who gives him a classic Patrick Stump look. Kinda like the one a single mom gives her son after he gets his fourth detention in a week. You know the one. 

“As much as I love this stuff, we’re hitting the road soon. We have a hotel night coming up, anyways. I might as well get to sleep before we start moving.” And with that, Patrick was gone. Andy glanced at the time, nodding behind him. 

“I think I better go too.” Joe nodded, leaning over to ‘no homo handshake’ Andy. As they do, Pete stands, making a decision. He’s not getting stuck with one of them in a hotel room again, no fucking way. 

“I’m rooming with Patrick. Dibs.” He gets looks from the others, but a nod of respect from Joe. Andy just rolls his eyes and heads out of the bus. As if that’s his queue, Joe stands up, grinning. He heads to the kitchenette in the bus, opening a drawer to pull out rolling paper. With that, Pete decides maybe he should try to get some sleep. Better to fall asleep before the bus starts moving than to try falling asleep amidst the bumps and jolts of the bus. He bids a quick goodnight to Joe, and heads back to the bunks. 

Eight hours was enough time for him to piece together a small memory of his daydream, laying on his back with his eyes shut, arms tucked up under his head. 

He runs his hand along the side of a pale, plush body. He thinks of sinking his teeth into the smooth skin, leaving deep marks all over because right now, this body was willing to give in to him for once, was willing to let him do what he wanted. He sucked in a breath, pressing up closer to the heat. How a body could be so warm, one entity shouldn’t be able to reach the pricking temperatures that the one he was getting so personal with does. There isn’t much sweat, not yet, not like when they’ve been on stage, not like when he presses into leather and cotton instead of skin. They make eye contact. He wonders what he looks like through baby blue eyes. Does he look nervous? Is it noticeable that he’s shaking? He’s wanted this for so long…

“Are you sure about this Pete? We don’t have to-” He shakes his head, there is no way he’s giving this up. He’s getting it now, the one thing he feels like he was born to do. If there’s a god, then that god put him on this earth to be here at this very moment. To do this right here, right now, with him. 

“I’m positive,” He noses into the softness of the body under him, so gentle. So different than nights of writing, yelling at each other over music, cold feet and stage fright. It’s perfect, it’s just as he didn’t even know he wanted. It’s just as he needs it. 

Just as a hand cups his cheek, just as his lips connect with the pink ones under him, he…

Hears the rings of the bunk curtain swing open. His eyes blink awake and he groans. He didn’t even get a chance to sleep. He looks over to see Patrick standing with his arms crossed. Well, he guesses they arrived at their destination. 

“We need to be at the venue in half an hour,” he sighed, then motioned over his shoulder, “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up for like, three hours now.”

Pete groaned, running a hand through his hair. Yeah, okay, he would get up. As he opened his mouth to respond, Patrick pulled the curtain closed, and probably walked away. Pete doesn’t know. He’s on the other side of the curtain. He tosses it open, hopping down out of his bunk. 

He goes through a song in his head, cause he gets up in the morning, and he goes to work at nine, he sighs. And he comes back home at five-thirty, gets the same train every time. He heads to the bathroom, not having realized how bad he had to piss. 'Cause his world is built 'round punctuality, it never fails. He isn’t sure how he got a Kinks song in his head, but he starts to whistle along as he pees. And he's oh, so good, and he's oh, so fine, and he's oh, so healthy, in his body and his mind. He washes his hands, heads out and looks out at his band, who all look either tired or pissed off, and he thinks, he's a well respected man about town, doing the best things so conservatively. 

“We should cover a song tonight,” He pitches, but the look he gets from Patrick says no, that’s a horrible idea, fuck you Pete. He remembers why he hasn’t made a move yet. Probably because the little fireball would have his head and his dick taken clean off. He sighs, turning to the coffee maker for some love, and yes, at least the coffee maker loves him. He pours himself a mug of coffee, and settles on the couch, sipping silently at the bitter drink. 

The night goes in slow motion and fast forward all at once. The drive to the venue, soundcheck, all up until the point where Pete decides to sneak out and meet fans in line. He gets a load of letters, little presents for each band member, he gets hugs and he feels way better. He thrives off this shit. It keeps him sane. The fanbase he has, the kids that are at the root of what Fall Out Boy stands for, when he thinks of them, he can’t think of a better reason to take a deep breath and live. They’re a better medication than any Duloxetine, Perphenazine, or Amitriptyline he’s ever tried. 

It’s something he stays hyped up on through the show, diving into the crowd at least twice, leaning off the stage to hold their hands, anything to get more energy. He does his usual dances around stage, presses into patrick during Saturday, whispers against his neck the same things he does during every show. He’s not sure if Patrick can even hear him, but it’s worth it to put his feelings out there somehow. Patrick leans back into him tonight, and yeah, the stage high only gets higher. He pulls away reluctantly, hopping back over to his usual spot to Patrick’s left. He grins into the crowd, and the rest of the show is a blur. 

They don’t meet and greet that night, a rare occurrence at this time in their careers. Instead of that or any sort of after party, it was a group decision to head to the hotel for the night. Nobody got any sort of real sleep on the bus, so they needed to crash pretty hard. It’s been a while since any of them showered, as well, so they all get pretty excited when they find some pretty high quality bathrooms at the hotel. Bless Marriott. 

Patrick claims the shower first, of course, and Pete lets him have it. He throws his own bag onto one of the double sized beds (the one closer to the wide window,) and stretches, looking around. The room is very art-deco, and he likes it. He makes his way over to the window, leaning against the wall it comes in junction with. He watches the outside, all the lights and people below him bustling around, doing whatever it is that they feel is important that night. It makes him smile. There’s so much life in the city, he can feel it thriving in himself, even his fingertips tingle a little. He leans his head against the cold glass, taking a few deep breaths. It’s nice from up above. Instead of the stress of crowds on the streets, he finds the city calming to look down at. The constant flow of traffic on foot and on wheels reminds him of the circulation in his own body. He himself is a city full of people. 

He doesn’t notice when Patrick finishes his shower, or when Patrick comes out to change into his pajamas. He only glances over when Patrick starts to talk. 

“You know, you should probably shower. You smell like gross man smell and second-hand weed.” Looking over his shoulder, Pete grins at him. He turns on his heel and opens up his arms for a hug. 

“Come on, hug your stinky friend, gimme some love, Rickster!” He gets stopped with a glare, and grabs a pair of sweatpants out of his bag, then salutes the singer, “Right. Shower time.” He hops off to the bathroom, feeling better than he has in a while. More bubbly, more free. He turns the water to the hottest setting, letting it prick at his skin until his tattoos stand out against a red hue, the steam clearing his head. Rolling his head back, he stretches out his neck, and lets out a sigh. After letting the shower sink in, about an hour or so later, he rubs himself dry and slips on his sweats, no underwear needed. 

The drill has always been the same on hotel nights. They’re past the awkwardness there used to be, Pete just flops onto the bed next to Patrick. He falls asleep better when he’s near Patrick, it’s like having his own personal space heater that also expels good feelies. He rolls onto his side to look at Patrick, who’s engrossed in his phone. He sighs then, sliding under the covers and grabbing a pillow to hold to his chest. 

He dreamt of robbing a bank that night, but in the suavest way. Like a criminal James Bond, all dressed up in a tux with girls on his arms, the whole shebang. Just as he was headed down a highway, speeding in his luxurious car, everything slows down. He glances to the side and watches, stepping on the brake does nothing. Another car hits him dead on and he feels a stabbing pain all through his body as the airbags infla- He wakes up. 

Patrick is staring at him, eyes wide. He reaches over and pulls Pete into a hug, again knowing the drill. Pete’s nightmares ranged in scenario and intensity, but no matter what, Patrick would handle it well. He ran his fingers through Pete’s hair and rubbed his back, sighing a bit. He would probably complain about getting no sleep in the morning, but he wouldn’t say anything until he knew everything was okay. 

He wonders if maybe Patrick gets the way he does too. So comfortable in each other’s arms, the only thing that distinguishes them from a normal couple is the fact that they insist that they aren’t one. Not that Pete wouldn’t want to be in a romantic relationship with Patrick, because he would totally be up for that. It’s just that Patrick wouldn’t want that, right?

“What?” Patrick asks, and Pete’s eyes snap up to his. 

“What what?”

“What did you just say?”

Pete grimaces. He needs to work on not saying everything he’s thinking. He sighs, mumbling a short apology, finishing it off with a sturdy, “Just pretend I never said anything.”


	2. I am sorry my conscience called in sick again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long to get this up i promise i am as horrible and flaky as you think i am

They’d be damned if they ever talked about it. Because, you know, how dare they face their issues instead of all bottling up their feelings and consequently causing them all to be essentially dead inside? Pete finds himself rooming more and more with Andy or Joe, not because he’s making an effort to not room with Patrick anymore, just because he’s not making an effort to room with him. He acts like he’s indifferent because that’s what he should be… right?

But it’s hard to not-avoid someone when you’re in the same band, especially when you’ve managed to do it for the remainder of a tour and half of the next. He ends up being confronted, about halfway through the tour, by none other than Joe. He’s cornered, a finger in his face, and a rather unhappy look for the goofy guitarist. Joe’s been on for the past ten minutes about Patrick driving Andy and him crazy. 

“It’s not like we don’t love him, Pete, because we do. But you two need to work your shit out before one of us fucking kills the guy, got it?” Seeing Joe fume like that was definitely not on Pete’s bucket list, but now he could cross it off anyways. He sighed, giving Joe his word that he would try- keyword: TRY- to fix whatever was going on between himself and Patrick. He ends up trying to figure out what exactly to say to Patrick…

He couldn’t just be like “LOL I was kidding! Let’s put it behind us,” because hell, he would’ve done that by now if it were the case. Patrick would know that. He’s just managed to dig himself a hole, why hasn’t he approached Patrick sooner? A mantra of ‘idiot, idiot, idiot’ flies through his brain, and not just in his own voice. 

A few hours later he finds himself being pushed into a bus, headed to their next location- Alabama or Arizona or something like that, he can’t remember. He glances around as the bus starts moving to find that this isn’t his bus. He groans out loud, slumping on the couch. Andy and Joe really must be annoyed for them to deal with one another for the entire trip to the next venue. Well, he might as well make the best of this, he thinks, and starts to shift and unzip his pants.

“You are not jerking off in this bus, Pete.” He grins, zipping his pants back up casually, and his brain starts to sing again. Aw yeah, just walking up on the ceiling, dancing up on the wall. He looks over his shoulder with a shiteating smile, making eye contact with Patrick. You and that drug you're dealing, should be against the law. He shifts again, more to face Patrick, trying to think of something witty to say back. All this heat keep rising, make you stop, drop, and roll. For the time being they just keep the eye contact, and suddenly it’s like mountains of weight are off of his shoulders as they hold an entire conversation without saying a word. I'm bottling up the lightning, supernatural. 

“Sorry,” is all he comes up with after a few moments, and Patrick smiles at him. He comes around the couch to sit next to Pete and they sit quietly for a moment. Patrick finds himself staring at the rip in Pete’s jeans, showing the skin of his kneecap (scraped from one too many falls.) It’s like talking wasn’t ever part of what they did, just body language, just a few looks, and they get it. Pete meant what he said, he’s just nervous. Patrick gets that Pete has feelings, though he’s not sure why Pete does. Patrick rubs the back of his neck, fingers working the stress out as it comes, trying to be normal for Pete, for the situation, trying not to make it awkward. He clears his throat and stands up, patting Pete’s shoulder.

“You know, if you asked, maybe we could try it out,” He says, then leaves Pete in a metaphorical wake of pink, fluffy clouds. Made of like, cotton candy or bubble gum. He grins, sitting up straight, catching Patrick just as he’s leaving the lounge. 

“Can we try it out then?” Patrick stops in place, halfway in the doorway. He watches Patrick’s back, only assuming that he’s fighting himself on what to do. He knows Patrick well enough to know that his flight instinct is probably kicking in- unlike Pete’s own typical fight instinct. He feels like the next few moments move in slow motion, watching Patrick adjust his hat on his head, turn to face Pete with a blank face, and then- AND THEN- smile. So he assumes that yeah, maybe Patrick wants to try this out.

That’s probably how he ended up in a whole new position. More smiles from Patrick on stage, but less physical contact. For some reason it was almost as if now that they had discussed it, he had less reason to claim Patrick in front of thousands of screaming fans. How he found Patrick leaning into him when he wrapped his arm around him, rather than staying put or swatting him away. Slowly the two became less like two rigid stones and more like two moldable pieces of play-doh. They were becoming more malleable, easier for the other to be around, if that was even possible. Falling asleep with his head on Patrick’s shoulder took on a new meaning, finding comfort in being next to the unstoppable heat that always seemed to roll off of Patrick’s body, focusing on the slight scent of oranges and deodorant. A soft touch to his knee grounding him, acting as his own melatonin. He found himself dreaming more often than not, and his nightmares reduced to something of a flicker in the background. With that he began to wonder, is that really what love is? This connection, feeling like nothing could stop him, feeling like Patrick was the perfect mix of helium and heartbeats to let him float up into his happy place?

It’s one of those nights, sitting on the couch in the lounge of their bus, that Patrick draws a heart on the skin of Pete’s knee with his finger, in the hole ripped from years of wear and tear. 

Two nights later, he kisses Pete goodnight. 

Three weeks later, he wakes up with sharpie on his forearm, “Will you still love me tomorrow?” scrawled out in Patrick’s chicken scratch penmanship. It takes him a few minutes to get the reference, but he’s known Patrick long enough to know that he had probably been listening to music all night for some inspiration. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Patrick stumbled into a little bit of a Norah Jones trance. It really isn’t a hard thing to do. Seriously, that woman’s voice is magic. 

He can hear Patrick tittering on the phone with somebody in the small kitchenette area, talking quietly enough to not wake the sleeping bassist, but loud enough that the person on the other end wouldn’t think he was around anybody else. Deceptive little fuck. Pete smiles, leaning over a bit to watch what Patrick is doing. Pacing. He crosses from one side of the bus to the other in his socks, pulled up over his ankles and the lower part of his calfs. His eyebrow is scrunched up and Pete can’t help to think that he kind of looks like a concerned puppy. He leans a bit further off the couch to try to silently get Patrick’s attention, only managing to lose his balance and topple- loudly- to the floor. Patrick pauses, then cracks a smile at him and crosses the floor to help pick him up. 

“Yeah, Mom, I have to go. Pete just fell off of the cou- Pete, my mom says hi,” He says, pulling Pete up to his feet. He smiles. Patricia always had a soft spot for the band. And by that he means that she was very critical and unsure of how they would treat her precious Patrick, but eventually they won her over. It was probably Andy’s morals and Joe’s likability. 

“Hey Patricia!” He responds, leaning in next to Patrick’s face, so he can say it into the microphone. Patrick swats him away, telling his mom that he loves her for what he assumes is probably the tenth time during the phone call. Pete isn’t sure if he feels bad or accomplished for cutting the conversation short. On one hand, he interrupted Patrick’s mommy time, on the other, now it’s Petey time. 

“What’s up with your mom?” Patrick settles himself down on the couch, proceeding to tuck his legs in underneath him. He shrugs, obviously trying to brush the subject off. 

“Not a lot. I told her about, uh,” he motions to the space between himself and Pete, who sits next to him, “all this stuff.” 

“What stuff?” Of course he knows what the stuff is. He just likes getting the satisfaction out of hearing Patrick talk about it. “Fall Out Boy stuff?”

“No, doofus. Us stuff. I told her that you’re my boyf-... Pete. You’re my Pete.” He shrugs his shoulders and shrinks down a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned.

**Author's Note:**

> much love. i'll high five someone for every kudos or comment this fic gets. my word is good. 
> 
> stay tuned.


End file.
